Mostly Void Partially Stars
by Galanerd
Summary: Hera McDaniels once had hopes of being the Voice of Night Vale; however, it is another town she is meant to speak for. There are rules when one leaves Night Vale, but when a murder rocks her new beloved town, a handsome prodigal son returns, and a flattering, yet unnerving stalker begins to leave "gifts" for her, Hera realizes these rules don't quite apply to Beacon Hills.
1. The Arrival

There are rules when one leaves Night Vale.

Everyone knew that, of course. However, no one was ever quite sure just _how_ they knew this. After all, people don't really _leave_. Sure, some disappeared - whisked away by the sheriff's secret police for reeducation, or perhaps snatched by that vague yet menacing government agency, or sucked through that one strange portal that glowed a soft lavender hue and smelled of pineapples that no one knew where it lead, only that it did... But one one ever considered those people _gone_ from Night Vale. They were simply misplaced, waiting to be rediscovered.

Aside from all that, yes, there are rules when one leaves that friendly desert community of Night Vale. Hera McDaniels chanted them in a quick hushed tone under her breath, like a prayer, though she was sure Old Woman Josie's Angels could no longer hear her. The bag she had with her - a simple messenger bag with an extra interdimensional pocket which had been a gift from Cecil and Carlos - was clutched against her stomach, and she hunched over it a bit, nearly obscuring it from view. Her fingers, long and slender, occasionally twitched, remembering a beat to some long forgotten song. It must have been illegal once, if the unease and flashes of guilt that accompanied the tapping were anything to go by. Yet she continued to tap; she passed the Sheriff's Secret Police jurisdiction boundary line what felt like hours ago. Perhaps it had only been minutes ago, or as long as weeks, months, years even. Hera didn't know. Time is weird, and she decided (what she assumes was) long ago, that she wouldn't pay it any mind.

The bus remained empty of any other passengers since it had picked up Hera from the Night Vale Community Radio Station. Cecil and the rest of the interns had thrown her a farewell party. Which was something of a shock, considering that ever she hadn't known she was supposed to leave just yet. Nonetheless, the gesture had been sweet, even if there was an incident when intern Cleo went to offer station management a piece of cake. They don't like cookie cake, it seems.

The radio, which the Faceless Driver has tuned to WZZZ, crackled with static. The farther from Night Vale they traveled, the worse it got. Hera strained to catch Cecil's familiar voice, and it brought her comfort when she heard him talk about the little goings on in town.

She had grown up listening to Cecil and his show, and it had sparked a love for radio in her. She took classes at the local community college, and had been one of the 8 surviving graduates. Naturally she had applied for an internship during her education, and there was talk - or what one can only assume was talk - amongst management that she, Hera McDaniels, had a shot at being the next Voice.

As it turned out, Night Vale is not the community she is meant to speak for.

The bus lurched to a stop, old brakes screeching in their effort. Hera's arm shot out to brace herself, and when she was sure the bus had completely stopped, she pried her hand free of the seat in front of her. It left a black scorched print that gave off the stench of burnt carpet.

Desperation made her hope that this was not her stop; she wasn't ready to be a Voice, no matter the words of encouragement from Cecil and her cousin Hiram, or Old Woman Josie and her Angels. It was too much, too quick - how would she do it without their guidance? She looked out the window, but saw nothing. The windows had been painted black sometime ago. Most of Night Vale's public transportation was like this.

When if seemed that the bus was not going to continue until it was rid of its sole passenger, Hera stood from her seat. Her hands shook as she reached down and grabbed her gym bag from the floor under her seat and threw the strap over her shoulder. Her knees felt weak as she slowly made her way to the front of the bus. Her hearts pounded, and she worried they would rip right out of her chest, which would have been unfortunate. She couldn't say she wanted to spend so much time hunting them down, especially since she had yet to pay her fare.

"Fare," the Driver reminded her as she came to a stop next to him and the still closed door. She wondered briefly _how_ he could speak, considering his lack of face, but quickly brushed the thoughts aside. Sometimes it's best not to question things.

She held her hand up over the silver goblet set up next to the Driver's seat and with speed invisible to the human - and faceless - eye, dragged her sharpened thumb nail over the side of her index finger. The skin split, and beads of blood welled up from the thin slice. Exactly three drops fell from her hand into the goblet before the cut disappeared. The blood sizzled as it landed.

The door opened and Hera remained frozen, hand to her mouth where she had sucked away the remaining blood. She felt the hot summer air on her back, heard the crickets and frogs sing in harmony, a dog bark in the distance - she wondered if it knew to steer clear from the dog park. The air smelled different than that of the dry desert she had spent her entire life in.

Panic welled in her throat. Leaving the bus meant leaving the last of her home, and while she knew _why_ she must leave, that didn't mean she was ready. What if, once she left, she would be forgotten. A name briefly considered, a flash of a face in a memory, lost in time, to those she loved and cared for. Or worse, she would forget them, lost pieces of her past left behind.

The radio crackled once more, and Hera could hear Cecil's voice as clear as though he stood next to her.

" _If you can hear my voice speaking live, then you know: We are not history yet. We are happening now. How miraculous is that_?"

Hera closed her eyes and exhaled. _I am not history yet,_ she thought to herself. _I am not history yet._ She turned and carefully walked down the steps of the bus, hand gripping and warping the safety rail and eyes on the steps so she wouldn't miss one. Once she was on the ground, she slowly looked up and around.

The structure of the station before her was painfully familiar. A replica of that of Night Vale's, though smaller, if that's even possible. The station stood alone, illuminated by the full moon's light in what could only be called a clearing - she realized that her station stood in a forest - and that was a dizzying thought, _her station_. Purple flowers sprouted from an overgrown garden surrounding the station, and they danced in the hot summer breeze. Vines enveloped the small building and seemed to reach up for the moon itself.

But what drew Hera in, what made her feel truly at peace, was how the station gave distinct feeling of home, the smell of magic only Night Vale could achieve - like peanut butter waffles. She smiled, and stepped through the flowers to the door. Her footsteps burned the path behind her. She stopped at the door, her hand on the handle. It felt solid beneath her touch, and she inhaled deeply, closing her eyes for a moment before looking back to the bus. Gone, and she was left to stare at the overgrown trail left untouched in its wake.

The door opened, giving no resistance, and a wave of stale air hit her as she pushed it open. She wrinkled her nose, poking her head in, and saw a large window on the wall across from her. Moonlight streamed in, falling upon the control booth that lined the window. She walked in, allowing the door to shut behind her, and found her eyes hardly needed to adjust - the moon offered ample lighting. A chair sat before the control station, and in front of it rested a mic and a pair of headphones.

She crossed the room and pulled the chair back, dropping her bags next to it. She eyed it, wondering if the old thing would hold her, and was pleasantly surprised when it only squeaked under her weight. Looking out the window, she realized that the station was situated on a… hill? A cliff? That oversaw the whole of her new town. The lights shined below her, and they reminded her of the stars.

She took in the controls before her, noting that they were a mirror of those back at Cecil's station. She had worked on them long enough to know how to work those in front of her, and so with practiced movements eased the station alive.

She reached out, grabbing the headphones, and carefully placed them over her ears. She took a breath, wondering what she would say. The words always seemed to just _come_ to Cecil. Perhaps they would come to her.

* * *

In a lonely hospital room, a radio sparked to life. Static filled the room, and its lone occupant twitched awake, but did not move to quiet the device. Slowly, the radio lulled down to a only a low hiss, and a soft, melodious voice drifted into the room, filling every nook and crevice.

" _What a beautiful moon we have. How soft her light, how comforting her presence. She sings to us - can you hear her? Hello, beloved Beacon Hills. I have been chosen by the unknown to be your guide for this evening, and every evening following, barring any sudden deaths on either of our parts. You may call me Hera."_

On his hospital bed, Peter Hale smiled for the first time in five years.

* * *

 **Hello! Thanks for giving this here fic a try! To be completely honest, I'm not really sure where this is going, but I've wanted to write this for a while, so we'll go on this journey together! Let me know what you think so far!**

 **If you've followed me from _Kerosene Hearts,_ I swear I'm going back to that soon. I won't abandon it when we're so close to the end of season one, I promise.**

 **Stay schway, y'all.**


	2. The Call for Interns

"Did we get that radio just so you can listen to Hera's show?" Scott McCall asked from the bed he lounged in, watching his best friend frantically turn the dial to the second hand radio - an old dusty analog radio - he had acquired from a pawn shop. They had biked all day to find _this_ particular radio. Apparently, none of the other radios had felt right.

Judging by how many other people they had seen throughout the day hunting for radios, Hera's show had prompted others to find _their_ perfect fit. They had even seen Jackson Whittmore out - or rather Lydia Martin dragging Jackson with her as she searched.

"You want to listen to her too or you won't had helped me hunt this down," Stiles Stilinski shot back, and Scott didn't have an argument. "Now shut up, I'm trying to find the channel."

"It's an AM," Scott offered. Stiles narrowed his eyes but didn't look up from his work. Scott huffed and fell back into the bed. The summer breeze drifted into the room through the open window, and it was a welcome exchange to the usual stuffiness of Stiles' room.

Scott knew he had the unknown Hera to thank for this. She often preached the benefits of the fresh desert air from her former home of Night Vale, and while Beacon Hills wasn't quite as dry, it was warm enough. And according to the radio host, summer in Beacon Hills lacked Night Vale's carnivorous June bugs, which was a pleasant surprise.

"Where do you think she gets her ideas for the show?" Scott asked, not expecting Stiles to answer. "Because some of the stuff she talks about is… out there."

The radio hissed in response before Stiles let out a yelp in victory as the white noise gave way to the gentle lulling melody that acted as a precursor to Hera's show. Scott had never heard the melody before, but there was something comforting about it, familiar. It felt like the first full breath of air after an asthma attack. Stiles turned up the volume to where the melody filled the room and scrambled back until his back was pressed against the bed, and Scott maneuvered himself to where he lay on his stomach, his head propped up next to Stiles.

"Do you think Night Vale actually exists?"

Stiles shrugged. "I looked it up, and all I found was a weird Wiki entry and a blocked website. I texted Danny about it but he didn't reply."

Scott didn't find it in himself to be surprised. Danny might not have ever been asshole to them, but he _was_ Jackson's best friend. It would take a lot to get Danny to ever reply to their texts.

"What time is it?" Stiles asked, his fingers tapping impatiently, and Scott huffed as he fumbled to get his phone out of his pocket. "It should be starting soon, right?"

"Any minute now," Scott reassures him, pressing the home button on his phone, and the screen lights up. 8:59, the time read. "Any minut-"

9:00, and melody trailed off into silence.

The show began.

" _What a beautiful evening we have, listeners. How still and quiet. Not a single misplaced glow cloud or pineapple portal. Hello, beloved Beacon Hills - how strange your little town is."_

Stiles snorted at that, and Scott got the sentiment. Beacon Hills wasn't strange - it was boring. Nothing ever happened. He figured that's why so many people latched onto Hera's show when it had suddenly started airing last Friday. She had dropped into their lives and stirred things up with her tales of Night Vale and her narration of her settlement in Beacon Hills.

She saw things differently. And Scott would never admit it to Stiles, but he loved the show as much his best friend did. Hera's voice eased the tightness in his lungs. Maybe that was why Stiles clung to it as well. She stilled him the way his medication never could.

" _As you know, I haven't been in Beacon Hills very long, and I'm still working through the culture shock. Listeners, are you aware that your librarians are extremely gentle and polite creatures that not once have tried to eat the young ones in the reading center? I decided to explore myself since I don't have interns yet - more on that later - and one of your librarians actually walked up very calmly and asked if I needed help. And she was sincere and so articulate! I have a library card now, listeners, and while your library lacks any necromancy manuels, I did find an interesting gardening book I checked out._

" _More than that, I ran into the local Sheriff-"_

Stiles sputtered, throwing an arm out, and Scott thumped him on the head. "Dude, you never said your dad _met her!"_ Scott exclaimed.

"He didn't tell me!"

"- _so nice! Now, Sheriff Stilinski did tell me that he_ does not _have a secret police or reeducation program, which, I find hard to believe. But I suppose I should give him the benefit of the doubt, considering I have yet to see any blue helicopters hovering above us. In fact, I've only ever seen one - it has a red cross on it and have been informed that that is a hospital helicopter. No need to worry there, listeners._

" _Now, back to my lack of interns. I know I have mentioned the lack of station management here, but I certainly don't miss them from Night Vale. They were so temperamental. But the lack of iterns is making reporting rather hard. I texted Cecil - I've mentioned him, he's my mentor from Night Vale, absolutely lovely man - and he says having interns is imperative to running a smooth show. And I have to agree._

" _I was an intern for Night Vale Community Radio for two years - Not to brag too much, but I hold the record for survival as an intern. And we interns were good at our jobs. We would investigate for Cecil when he couldn't leave his booth and report back. Why, just last week before I left I was sent to talk to Mayor Pamela Winchell about the plans for the new dog park being made. She didn't have much to say. She kept talking around the subject, and mentioned hooded figures…. Well, turns out, listeners, we are not to enter the dog park in Night Vale._

 _Never mind that boring old news, Beacon Hills. I have news regarding interns. Specifically, I have news regarding how one might become an intern. That's right, dear listeners, your new Voice of Beacon Hills is hiring! Well, maybe not hiring, as you wouldn't be paid… but it would be well worth the experience, and not nearly as strenuous as what_ I _endured back home. Turns out, after talking to Sheriff Stilinski, that was employee endangerment. Who would have thought!"_

As Hera spoke of the internship, Stiles bounced excitedly and turned to look up at Scott with wide eyes. Scott refused to look at him, if only because that would be admitting that he felt the exact same as Stiles. His heart pounded in his chest, and anticipation caused his breath to hitch.

" _How does one apply, you may be be wondering. Usually, one would simply find a summons in their mailbox, or send in an application. I have neither applications nor summons, but I think we both know, listeners, that I do not need to send out a summons._

" _Qualifications are as follows-"_ Scott straightened, and noticed how Hera's tone shifted, taking a sort of melancholy quality to it as she goes on. " _You must feel the_ Call. _Not just listen to the show - on anyone and the faceless old woman living in their home can hear the show in town. No, you must_ feel _it. It draws you in, dear listeners, just as it did for me. How you feel it depends on you._

" _It might be loosen your lungs when they feel tight, envelop you in love and banish your loneliness - perhaps it gives you strength to step out of the mold you find yourself trapped in. It stills you when nothing else will. It gives you peace. Do you feel it, dear listeners? Do you feel the call?_

" _Follow it, and you will find me. And when you do, you will be, officially, an intern of Beacon Hills Community radio._

" _And since all good things have time limits, you have until the end of the show."_

Stiles was practically vibrating as he spoke over Hera's next announcement about a summer reading program. "Dude." He jumped up, and Scott sat himself up to watch his friend. "Dude."

"We're going?" Scott asked, and he tried not to sound as breathless as he felt. He must have failed, because Stiles grabbed at the spare inhaler he kept in his desk drawer and tossed it to Scott.

"We're going."

* * *

Lydia Martin held her breath and counted back from ten. She stood at the base of the stairs, Prada in her arms. Her parents were in the dining room arguing as they often were these days. They were getting a divorce - they didn't know that she knew, which she found ridiculous. It wasn't as if they tried to hide it. She didn't want to think about it, and instead plastered a fake smile on her face, shifted Prada's weight from one arm to the other, and called out:

"Mom? Dad?"

Silence fell throughout the house. Lydia stepped out, and her parents wore the same fake smile she had - strained and desperate to be believed.

"I'm going to walk Prada."

Her mother's face warped in concern for a split second as she glanced around for a clock. "At this time-"

"She needs to go," Lydia cut her off. "I won't go far." This was a lie. Whether her parents knew that was not her problem. "I'll be back soon." This was also a lie. But it wasn't as if her parents would notice once they got back to their argument.

"Be careful, honey," her mother said, and her voice sounded distracted. Lydia's smile wavered, only for a split second, before she nodded and headed to the door. She paused in the foyer and grabbed her large purse - the one she had specifically for carrying Prada. Her puppy got tired easily, and Lydia wasn't about to make her walk the whole way.

Once the door was shut behind her, Lydia took in a deep breath. _What am I doing_? she wondered to herself as she set Prada down. The papillion looked up at her expectantly. Lydia pulled her phone out of her pocket and glanced at the time. 9:15. She had forty-five minutes.

"Let's go, baby," she cooed down at the dog, and Prada's tail wagged excitedly in return. "Let's go get me an internship."

* * *

Vernon Boyd didn't have friends. He had a younger sister left, a mother who promised didn't hate him, and a new job at the ice rink. He had an old bike, an old radio, and feeling in his gut that if he didn't go to the _hills_ of Beacon Hills, nothing would ever change for himself.

So he told his mother who probably did hate him that he was going for a bike ride, and she didn't argue, which is how he found himself in the middle of the Beacon Hills Wildlife Preserve after hours, biking up a trail and not feeling as out of breath as he should have.

There was a figure up ahead, and he slowed as he got closer. The telltale glow of a phone flashlight lit the way for the figure, and in the waning moonlight, he caught a flash of red hair pulled up in a ponytail.

He knew Lydia Martin. Not personally, hadn't spoken to her since their eighth grade science teacher had paired them up for a project, but he knew her. She wasn't as stupid as she pretended to be - she only started acting like an idiot after freshman year started and she got Jackson's attention.

He didn't blame her. Not really. She did what she had to do to make and keep friends, even if they weren't the best kind.

Boyd moved to the other side of the trail as he got closer to her, not wanting to scare her. He wasn't stupid - young white girl walking on her own in the middle of the woods. He kept his gaze forward, and didn't even double take when her purse barked at him. Boyd had every intention of just going on his way before:

"Hey!" He slowed, glancing back, and Lydia shined her light at him. "Vernon?"

He blinked in surprise and came to complete stop. She took a few more steps toward him before stopping herself. A small, fancy looking dog poked its head out of her purse.

"Hey," he said quietly, looking away and swallowing.

"You're looking for Hera, aren't you?" Lydia asked.

He hesitated for a second before answering. "Yeah."

Lydia looked him over, and he couldn't help but do the same to her, especially with that tiny dog in her purse. "Can I walk with you?" she asked, and her voice was quiet, uncertain.

"Really?"

"I mean, I can walk by myself-"

"We can go together," Boyd interrupted her quickly, not daring pass up the opportunity. "If you want." She smiled, and it seemed much more genuine than he had seen her smile all freshman year. "Your dog is cute," he said as she fell in step next to him.

She looked down at the pup, and patted its head. "Her name is Prada. She's a papillion."

Vernon Boyd didn't have friends, but he hoped to change that.

* * *

"Is this it?" Stiles asked, looking up at the building before them. It was a small thing, surrounded by purple flowers and wrapped up in vines. A single light - a purple bulb, oddly enough - shined by the door.

Next to him, Scott took a puff from his inhaler. "I never knew Beacon Hills had a radio station. It looks pretty old."

"It must have been here unused for a while," Stiles mused. "Do you think she's inside?"

"Well, you're not going to find out if you don't knock."

Stiles and Scott jump at the voice behind them, and they whirl around, dropping their bikes. Coming up the trail and stopping before them stands a pair Stiles never thought to see with each other: Lydia Martin and Vernon Boyd. Stiles didn't know Boyd very well - he didn't think anyone did really - but Lydia…

"Lydia!" Something moved in her purse at the mention of her name, and Stiles blinked. "You brought your dog?"

"She needed the walk." Lydia narrowed her eyes at him, as if daring him to say something about it. "Have you tried the door?"

"Uh, well-"

"We just got here-"

The friends floundered and trailed off with their excuses as Boyd wordlessly walked his bike to the front of the building and propped it up before making his way to the door. He raised his hand to knock, but the door flew open and he jumped back. Stiles definitely did not yelp, but it was a close thing. From the safety of her purse, Prada barked once, twice, and then settled in silence.

A figure stepped out into the purple light. It was a young woman, Stiles realized, in her early twenties, maybe. She stood at about the same height as Boyd. Her shirt - Big Rico's Pizza, it read - had the sleeves ripped off, and the muscle on her arms would put most of the lacrosse team to shame. The light made her dark skin seem purple, and her hair, blue or purple curls, he couldn't quite tell, was cropped short with an undercut. Her eyes struck him the most. Even in the weird lighting, her eyes stood out the most. They were light grey - silver almost. Not full like a pencil lead, but bright, like the knives his dad likes to keep sharped and on display in the kitchen.

She smiled, and her smile radiated comfort.

"Hello! I'm Hera McDaniels. You must be my interns."

Stiles looked at Scott in excitement, and noticed how Boyd looked past them at Lydia. Prada let out a cheerful bark, and Hera gestured to the door.

"Come in! We have a lot to discuss. I'm so excited to finally meet you!"

* * *

 **We're taking this fic one step at a time, guys. Huge thank you to those who decided to give it a try and fav/followed, and another huge thank you to those that reviewed! Next chapter we'll see much more of Hera and her interactions with Beacon Hills**

 **(While I have you here, I want to kinda sorta promote a couple things. My first fic Kerosene Hearts has been updated, so if you're new to me at all, you should check that out! Also, I started another teen wolf oc fic! It's called _Let me Lay (waste to thee)_ , and I just posted the prologue, so if you're interested, you should go give that a look see! I'd really appreciate it!)**

 **(ALSO, another self promotion: I have a tumblr. It's thegalanerd. I do edits and answer asks and all that fun stuff about my characters. I already have some Hera stuff, so if you're interested in seeing her face claim, you should totes head over and check it out!)**

 **okay I'm done. Stay schway, y'all.**


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